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I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn’t have a weapon like the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.
Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my brother. I swear I’m going to be so cross with him about this mess—
Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so completely still, I cease to breathe.
The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.
Although he’s crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At six-foot-three, I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai has an inch or two on me, and he’s ridiculously pumped with more muscles than anyone needs.
But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on inflicting pain.
However, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now.
The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid.
Amusement.
No, curiosity?
Interest?
His finger falls from the mask, but before I can release a breath, he suddenly wraps his hand around my nape, near the hairs I constantly assault.
Maybe it’s because that area is particularly battered and sensitive, but the moment his rough skin touches mine, a flood of what I assume is nausea threatens to spill from my gut.
Only, it’s not nausea.
It’s—
Nikolai barks out laughter that echoes around us in a swell of burgundy and hot red-orange. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, eighty-nine.”
2
BRANDON
“You know who I am?”
I have no clue how the words tumble out of my mouth—in a sickeningly unsteady voice, I might add.
Tick.
A crack appears in my outer walls and extends to the ground beneath me.
Tick.
The black hole widens, and muddy black ink swallows my feet until I can’t feel them.
Tick—
“Hmm. Should I?” The rumbling gruff of Nikolai’s voice sounds sinister, reinforced by the splashes of blood on his neon mask.
I’ve been in a constant state of hyperawareness ever since he crowded my space, but that’s not right.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
A puff of breath heaves out of my constricted chest and, with it, my inhales and exhales return to normal.
I’m thinking too much—as usual.
